


Of Martinis and Guitars

by AgentJoanneMills



Category: DC Cinematic Universe, DCU, Supergirl (TV 2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bands, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Drummer!Alex, F/F, Featuring, First Meetings, Introducing the Potstickers, Keyboardist!Clark, Live on Extraterrestrial - the trendiest music lounge in National City, Meet-Cute, One Shot, Romance, Vocalist-and-Guitarist!Kara, special participation of Lena Luthor’s introspective thoughts, this goddamn ship crept up on me wtf
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-20
Updated: 2016-11-20
Packaged: 2018-09-01 02:01:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,116
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8602894
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AgentJoanneMills/pseuds/AgentJoanneMills
Summary: Kara is the adorable vocalist of the Potstickers, an up-and-coming indie band. Lena Luthor, scion to one of the most powerful families in the country, hears her sing.





	

**Author's Note:**

> *Recognizable elements belong to their respective owners.  
> **Merely a work of fanfiction. No copyright infringement intended.

 

Lena has long since resigned herself to living a life she didn’t choose.

She is daughter to the Luthors, an old family synonymous to power and eminence, and she is expected to uphold this name—this name that she’s been gifted with when she got adopted at the age of four.

And she has, for the most part. She has played her role admirably, as the scion to a business empire that controls vast reserves of financial wealth and is widely influential in the socioeconomic and political spheres of the world’s government. She is smart and shrewd, and she has mastered the art of subtlety and refined manipulation; her pretty words are laden with just enough steel to carry _law_ between their syllables, lying on the balance between a request and a demand, and her gazes exude just enough charm and magnetism to bend reality to her own will.

She knows she is made to wield power, and she knows she does it well.

 

But just because she does it well doesn’t mean she likes doing it.

For all the good things the Luthors have given her—a name with weight and value, a straight path to greatness, and a bottomless funding—what they have taken in return is the one thing Lena truly wants.

Freedom.

 

****

 

When the responsibilities become too suffocating (which is often . . . though that is another matter altogether), Lena drinks—not enough to lose her wits and make a fool of herself but enough to dull the edges that prick into her skin, the edges cutting into her soul and sharpening her heart into a harsh, bitter thing that bears a remarkable resemblance with her mother.

Her house is as well stocked as an upscale bar, and she usually just helps herself to some whiskey on the rocks or a shot of bourbon after a draining day at the office.

There are times, however, when that is not enough.

There are times when the very walls of her home (and Lena wonders when that word would stop sounding like such a lie) seem to collapse in on her and trap her, and Lena fears that drinking alone would lead to far more disastrous consequences than a mild hangover.

So during those times, she instead grabs her coat, leaves her phone on silent, and goes to Extraterrestrial.

Despite being National City’s most popular music lounge, Extraterrestrial, in general, is a place where someone of Lena’s status could be seen without worrying about her privacy being invaded. There is a sense of acceptance nurtured within its doors, its patrons an eclectic mix of locals and tourists, but the bouncers do good work in sniffing out the annoying ones and letting in just enough of the earnest to spread the club’s good name.

The VIP area, in particular, boasts of a sophistication and class second to none. Though carefully blocked from the main floor and prying eyes, it offers the best view of the stage that showcases unplugged performances from the city’s finest raw talents, found by Extraterrestrial’s capable bookers who have a knack for _finding_ the little known acts and _making_ them known.

And since Lena is who she is and her family is what it is, the best seat in the house is perpetually reserved for her. She can look over the balustrade and watch, unobstructed, as the band of the night plays their music to the crowd’s entertainment.

 

This night is no different . . . except for every way that it _is_.

 

****

 

Lena is on her second martini when a hush fell on the crowd below in anticipation of the upcoming performance.

“If you’re familiar with the indie scene, then chances are you’ve already heard tonight’s band play before,” Chloe says, nearly buzzing with enthusiasm. Lena has never seen Extraterrestrial’s floor manager this keyed up in all the time she’s been going here. “And if not, well, let’s rectify that _appalling_ situation right now. Please welcome . . . the Potstickers!”

Applause breaks out—and it is _real_ applause, not just a polite one, leading Lena to believe that the Potstickers, as unfortunate as their name is, are as brilliant as Chloe made them sound. There are even a few whistles as a trio of exceptionally beautiful individuals takes the stage.

A woman with short dark hair sits behind the drums, sliding her own drumsticks smoothly from the sleeves of her black leather jacket. She radiates effortless authority, and her face is set in an impassive mask belied with the quiet intensity in her eyes.

A man, also dark haired and with the chiseled face of a demigod, takes the keyboards. He’s wearing glasses and tweed and a tie, his nerdy type of attractiveness providing superb contrast with the rock-chic vibe their drummer gives off in spades.

And their third member . . .

Well.

Their third member turns out to be Lena’s undoing.

With hair like spun gold and eyes like sapphires, brilliant though hidden behind a pair of black-framed glasses, the band’s third member is the embodiment of every painter’s idea of an angel. The quirk on her pretty lips is both excited and shy, and her fingers are dancing nervously on the strap of her guitar. She stands behind the microphone, tapping it once, twice, before clearing her throat.

“Hi,” she greets, fumbling with her glasses for a bit. “We’re, well, the Potstickers, which you already know because we’ve just been introduced, sorry.” She chuckles adorably, mock-wincing when her audience laughs along with her, though Lena can see that she is legitimately flustered. She clears her throat again, swinging her guitar so that it rests comfortably in front of her, and her fingers continue their agitated dance, as if the girl has to release all her restless energy in some way lest she combust. “Anyways. We’ve been asked to play something new tonight, and since we’re gonna be releasing our EP next week, we figure it’s a good time to play one of the songs from it. So, uhm, this is ‘Crossfire.’”

Then deft fingers begin plucking a melody that sounds like both _hello_ and _goodbye_ , layered with the longing tones of the keyboards, and then delicately punctuated by the soft beat of the drums. The music’s progression is so restrained that it can easily be missed, and before its _breaking_ point, the blonde starts to sing.

Lena is mesmerized, for all the way the blonde looks like an angel, she sure sounds like a siren keeping everyone under her thrall, and Lena can’t find it in herself to look away. There’s a raw quality to the singer’s voice that draws Lena in, something like sadness dipped in regret, and it is as intoxicating as the drink in Lena’s hand.

And the song goes on, but Lena cannot really remember much aside from the way those blue, _blue_ eyes find hers in one of their sweeps across their audience, and the way she feels when they refuse to release Lena from their gaze. There’s a force in those eyes that Lena cannot resist, a force that gives Lena the strength she needs to soar into the skies.

Lena has never believed in love at first sight. She has never even believed in _love_ itself; it’s kind of hard to, after all, when one grew up with a psychopathic brother and an absentee father and a mother who has a skewed sense of right and wrong.

But _those_ _eyes_ are made for things as beautiful as love, Lena thinks.

 _Maybe they can teach me how_ , a voice inside her says. _Maybe_ she _can teach me how._

The rest of the world falls away, and for the first time in a long while, Lena feels _free_.

 

****

 

The crowd’s applause is louder than it’s ever been, and even those in the VIP area who usually go to the club for mingling rather than listening get on their feet for the standing ovation.

Lena stands and joins them, applauding with her heart in her throat and her eyes still on the blonde standing timidly on the center of the stage.

Lena follows her with her gaze until the group disappears backstage, and then she sighs, a tiny sound of remorse and pining. She wants to go after the girl—she _does_ —but what good would that do?

She’s a Luthor, and Luthors are not granted the privilege of pursuing what they want unless it directly _and_ positively affects the family name.

So against her instincts screaming at her to run after the girl, she remains in her seat—the lone queen on her throne. She welcomes the isolation like an old friend, and she leans back as she drains the last of her martini. She lets the soft acoustic from the speakers wash over her, the sound not as wonderfully tender as the music earlier but enough to calm her down.

She is just about to raise her hand to Megan, the mixologist whose concoctions are as otherworldly as the club’s name, for another glass when a hostess deposits one on her table.

Lena looks up with a confused frown. “I didn’t . . . ask for it.”

“It’s a gift, ma’am,” the hostess explains with a grin. “Enjoy your drink.” Then she winks at someone behind Lena and walks away.

Lena turns back with a perplexed expression that immediately drops away when she sees who is standing close to her, looking down at her with a soft, bashful smile.

“Hi,” the blond vocalist says, sort of breathlessly, and her fingers are almost-aggressively twiddling with each other now that they don’t have a guitar to fiddle with. “I, uh, well, hi?” She scrunches up her nose, and Lena can’t help but feel endeared. “I mean, I already said that, didn’t I? Oh, Rao, sorry, I didn’t intend to sound like such a creep, but even against the stage lights you just really have the prettiest eyes and I actually wanted to see them up close maybe and so I kinda just sprinted up here and I saw that your glass is empty so I figured you might want another one? I’m so, so sorry, I normally don’t just buy people drinks, you know, and consent is a thing, and I totally do not want to overstep my boundaries but I just—”

Lena’s laughter cuts off the blonde’s delightful rambling, and it feels good— _laughter_ —Lena can’t even remember the last time she did that out of pure happiness and not because she had to. The blonde flushes further, Lena can see as much from beneath the muted lights, and she looks about a second away from bolting out of embarrassment.

And Lena cannot have that, not when it is _her_ who sought Lena out.

So Lena beams at her and gestures to the seat beside her—a seat that has never been occupied before, because the regulars have known to steer clear of her and her table as she favours her solitude. “Please, join me,” she says, and her smile widens when the blonde nods once, as if psyching herself up, then sits down.

“Thank you,” the blonde murmurs, reaching up to fix her glasses’ perch on her nose.

“You’re welcome.” Lena raises her drink. “And thank you for this.”

The blonde’s lips curve up in a smile. “You’re welcome,” she returns.

Lena thinks she can survive on that smile alone. “I’m Lena, by the way,” she says instead, proud of the way her voice doesn’t waver. “I figure we should have started with that, but well, it is what it is.”

The blonde visibly tenses, and Lena fears she said something offensive, but before she can apologize, the blonde’s speaking again. “Oh my god, yes, I’m sorry, I totally didn’t say my name earlier, did I? It’s Kara—my name, I mean. I’m Kara.” She offers Lena her hand, and Lena takes it.

Her grip is sure, firm, but gentle. It’s reassuring and safe. Lena never thought she can feel so much just from a handshake.

But then she also never thought she’ll ever be enamored by a blonde girl with the voice of the divine, with eyes too blue and too beautiful for this earth.

And maybe that’s why she’s here, Lena supposes. Maybe the gods deem it right to let this girl exist because this earth needs her beauty to fill up the dreary spaces, needs her light to fight off the shadows.

Whatever the case (whatever happens), Lena knows it is too late to run away.

 

 

Not that she’d want to, anyway—not when her instincts are now screaming at her to _stay_.

 

****

 

And so she stays, and for once _staying_ doesn’t mean being held back.

 

For once, _staying_ means _everything_.

 

**Author's Note:**

> me: so i have this idea where we actually write what we’re meant to write and update stuff that needs updating like, _yesterday_  
>  my brain: new number who this
> 
> Come yell at me or something at [A Blank Canvas](http://agentjoannemills.tumblr.com/ask) or [@eyyogg](https://twitter.com/eyyogg). I gotta probably be yelled at to finally get my shit together.  
> Feedback is much appreciated; feelings fuel everything. :))  
> 


End file.
